


It's A Wonderful Life

by lucythegoosey



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Beards (Relationships), Canon Compliant, Christmas, Christmas Caroling, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Domestic Bliss, Drinking, Drunk Dialing, M/M, POV Harry Styles, POV Third Person, RBB, Rainbow Bondage Bear - Freeform, The X Factor Era, Tiny bit of Angst, but it's swallowed up in all the fluff I promise, prepare for lots of pop culture christmas references!!!, teenage larry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8905558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucythegoosey/pseuds/lucythegoosey
Summary: A boy born on the eve of Christmas and the boy who loves him. One day, five years.In hindsight, roughly inspired by this fanart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a fun spur of the moment Christmas spirited one-shot! 
> 
> This one goes out to Phoebe who helped me with the angst part (as she always does), and who edited this like a champ!
> 
> Merry Christmas!
> 
> Edit: I've now posted a [little moodboard](http://harryrainbows.tumblr.com/post/154961825750/its-a-wonderful-life-by-lucythegoosey-completed) for this!

❄ Prologue ❄

In the solace of one of the bedrooms in the X-Factor house, two teenage boys are discussing Pokémon in enthralling detail. Their friendship, which is a mere five days old, grows and thrives under the dingy lights, away from the ruckus and chatter of the rest of their housemates downstairs and in the adjacent rooms.

Harry and Louis have been playing this game for hours now; the one that starts with a random question and somehow ends in enthusiastic gesticulation, laughter and mirrored ear to ear grins. Harry doesn't think he's had such a fast connection with anyone in his life, and while being with Louis feels like he's staring at something bright and mesmerising, he sees no reason to stop.

There's probably plenty they should be doing that doesn't involve fits of laughter and knees bumping together and eventually (because the floor becomes too hard on their bums) lying side by side in Harry’s single bed. Maybe they should be doing vocal warm ups, or having band meetings about important things like their ‘brand’ and ‘image’ and all those fancy technical terms. Harry is even certain that someone will come bounding up the stairs, charge into the room and declare they’ve got to record a video diary entry, though he knows that isn’t until the end of the week. And anyway, Louis is in the band with Harry, so he uses that as an excuse to hideaway with him.

By now, Harry knows Louis is eighteen years old. His favourite movie is _Grease_ and he has four sisters – two of them a set of twins – and Harry tells him he just has one sister, and he can't imagine _three more_ Gemma’s, even though he loves her. They talk about that for a while.

“Favourite time of the year?” Is the question Louis finally asks after melodramatically mulling over it and rubbing his chin thoughtfully in a way he's already figured out, after less than a week, makes Harry giggle.

“ _Easy._ Christmas.” Harry confidently answers, the heels of his feet slipping off the end of the bed. He looks over at Louis, which is quite a feat in the confined space they're sat in.

“Really?” Louis asks, voice raised in skepticism. “I thought that was just what kids say.” 

“Hey!” Harry elbows Louis in his side, and pouts until Louis mumbles an apology. “I'm allowed to be sixteen and love Christmas.”

“You are, you're right.” Louis smiles at him funny – not a laugh out loud, pulling a silly face funny (though there's been plenty of that) – but an adoring sort of funny, a smile Harry will come to know pretty well, but that he hadn't seen before ‘till then. 

“S'just... kind of magical and it brings everyone together. And like...” Harry trails off, thinking long and hard. It isn't difficult to pinpoint exactly, but the thing about Louis is that Harry constantly wants to impress him, or make him laugh, or do anything that'll keep him around just that little bit longer. “I like all the little traditions 'n whatever. Me and mum and my sister always watch _Love Actually_ on the telly. We have it on DVD but it’s on channel five every Christmas. S’like, everyone in England is watching it too,” He pauses, then thinks of even more that he loves about this time of year, “The tree, the lights and Christmas songs–” He gets over excited, just thinking about it. “ _Christmas songs!”_ He croons.

Louis laughs, a barking elated cackle with his head tilting back against the pillow they're sharing.

“Okay, I can see it.” He allows and Harry wonders if he’s smiling at the image of Christmas, or _Harry_ at Christmas. He decides the latter brings too many butterflies to his stomach to focus on for long. So instead, Harry watches how the light catches on Louis’ eyelashes, decides they’re too pretty and too long for a boy, but that he can’t imagine any girl looking quite so beautiful with the exact same pair as Louis.

A short silence elapses in which Harry finds himself staring at Louis, though he’s not quite sure why.

“My birthday’s on Christmas Eve.” Louis says, meeting Harry’s eyes, making him feel exposed or like he’s guilty of something more criminal than gawking.

“No way,” Harry states in a low, curt tone. Louis nods in answer. “You're kiddin’, that's so cool.”

“Is it?” Louis looks a mixture of amused and curious.

“Yeah!” Harry props himself up on his elbows, craning his neck to look at Louis who’s face is inches lower, somehow still as impossibly close as they were seconds ago. “Are you serious? That’s like…” He looks to the ceiling, searching for a more articulate, less dorky way of expressing his enthusiasm. He gives up relatively quickly. “The best birthday ever.”

“You really think so?” Louis asks, and it’s not sarcastic – not some cosmic joke Harry’ll catch on to a moment too late. He genuinely wants to know, a look of amazement in his eyes.

“Yes,” Harry answers adamantly. “Louis… you get the whole Christmas cheer of December leading up to your birthday. It’s like the whole world is celebrating with you. And then you get Christmas day right after. And _loads_ of presents, too, I bet!”

“You make it sound so great.” Louis says sincerely, his voice raspy with a soft smile, and Harry swears he’s never _heard_ a smile before, but that’s exactly what it sounds like.

“S’cause it is!”

“Growin’ up I used to _hate_ it though,” Louis muses, a tanned hand sliding across the edge of his fringe, pushing to expose just that little bit of forehead. “Always felt like nobody cared ‘bout it being my birthday, ‘cause everyone was busy getting ready for Christmas.” Harry can tell by observing minutely closer, that this is a vulnerable thing Louis is admitting, disguised subtly behind a casual anecdote.

Harry blinks, lips parted and silent as ever.

Louis shrugs. “Sometimes felt like I was being ignored.”

“But Lou,” The nickname slips out before Harry can even stop it, and he knows deep down that it’s too soon for that, that some boys aren’t even nickname type people, that maybe Louis’ll start to realize Harry’s just a lame sixteen-year-old and begin to think he’s too weird to hang out with anymore. None of those things happen – at least not visibly – in the seconds after the word, so Harry hesitantly continues. “Everybody knows what Christmas Eve is. My birthday is February first, but no one else thinks that day is important. It’s the first of the month, okay, but that’s not cool, is it? S’not _special_.” Harry feels like he’s stumbling over his words in the hurry to get his point across, even though he’s been teased by Louis before over his slow way of speaking. “When you tell people you’re born December 24 th, everyone knows that day, everyone _loves_ that day. Even people who don’t celebrate Christmas.” He pauses. “Well, actually… maybe not people who don’t celebrate Christmas.” He frowns, and Louis breathily giggles, “But – the point _still stands!_ ”  

“You _really_ like Christmas, don’t ya, Curly?”

Perhaps Louis is a nickname person after all. And suddenly Harry has the urge to shake his head, grab Louis by the shoulders and go – _No, you fool, I_ really _like you. Christmas is just an added bonus to the long list of things I really like about_ you _._ He’s too shy.

“I really do.” He says instead, basking in the way Louis’ disposition is sunnier now than he’s ever seen it, and it’s all because of something Harry said. 

 

❄ 2011 ❄ 

Drink in hand, Harry sifts through the hoards of guests, _Jingle Bell Rock_ blasting so loudly that he can’t even hear himself think. The night is still young, relatively speaking, despite the darkened sky and increasingly legless party guests.

“Hey,” Harry announces to the blonde back of Niall’s head. The boy is unresponsive, totally enraptured by a drinking game, jeering two other boys on enthusiastically as he waits his turn. The whole scene plays out like an early 2000’s American teen comedy. The only indicator that this is London at Christmas Eve are the reindeer antlers Niall is wearing, accompanied by the way the alcohol draws out the thickness of his Irish accent. “Hey, Niall!” Harry shouts louder across the music.

Niall finally turns around with a whip of enthusiasm, his face lighting up to a grin when he registers who’s calling his name. Harry realizes he’s not only wearing reindeer antlers, but a plush tomato red nose, too.

“Harry!”

“You seen Louis anywhere?”

Niall frowns, settles into a straighter posture and thinks. “Downstairs, mate. A bit mopey last I saw him.”

“Hmm,” Harry nods. He’d been afraid of that. “Thanks, Niall,” And then, as an afterthought, “I’m bettin’ on you, by the way,” he gives a pointed look at the drinking game continuing on in front of them, “Don’t let me down.”

“Cheers.” Niall laughs, patting Harry’s back hard and fast before returning his attention to the game.

Sure enough, Louis is exactly where Niall claimed – downstairs. What Harry _doesn’t_ expect, though, is to have to search high and low only to find his boyfriend sitting on the floor of the walk-in pantry, of all places.

It’s a fairly miserable state of affairs: Louis crossed legged on the floor, surrounded by the shelves of canned goods, with a packet of pasta on his lap, flicking singular uncooked pieces across the floor like some makeshift marbles game.

“Lou,” Harry sighs, garnering Louis’ attention enough that he looks up from his fixed gaze. “Why are you in here?” He asks in a soothing tone, already beginning to shut the pantry door behind him for more privacy.

Louis shrugs, shoulders slouched and overall giving off a despondent air.

“So I won’t be embarassin’ and say somethin’ stupid or get clingy.” He answers simply, shifting restlessly.

“You’re barmy,” Harry begins, sitting legs crossed next to him on the floor, shuffling as close as he can before continuing fondly, “You’re not clingy. And there’s no way you’d ever say anythin’ stupid, either.”

Unconvinced, Louis makes a disgruntled sound. “ _I am_ ,” He decides, staring off, “And I wanted to be all… cool about hostin’ this Christmas thing on my birthday, but…” His mouth pulls into a lopsided sad smile, “Turns out I’m not. M’not remotely cool.”

“You’re plenty cool. I actually happen t’think… you’re the coolest. Really wicked.”

Louis gives Harry a pointed look, seemingly remembering he’s lamenting to his biggest fan (perhaps after his mother) and subsequently rolls his eyes.

“Alrigh’, but…” He trails off, biting the inside of his cheek nervously, “Isn’t it selfish or somethin’? Wantin’ to make it all ‘bout me?”

“I don’t think so. It’s your birthday, everybody knows birthdays are for bein’ a bit selfish.”

“ _But_ _Haz_ …” Louis presses, “It _is._ ‘Cause I promised you… I promised we’d have all this fun and throw this Christmas party thing, I said I’d be fine with just celebratin’ me birthday durin’ the day ‘n stuff…”

“Your birthday doesn’t end soon as it gets dark, you dick’ead,” Harry interjects, nudging Louis’ shoulder fondly, “You turned bloody twenty! It’s a big deal – hey,” He nudges again, because it seems to soften the way Louis’ lips are downturned, seems to smooth the subtle quiver that threatens to turn into tears, “Hey, you, none of that,” He brushes a finger on Louis’ soft, flushed cheek. “We can still have loads of fun, you know. It’s still your birthday for another hour at least. I can go upstairs ‘n make everyone sing you happy birthday till’ midnight if you like. M’sure they’d be all for it.”

Louis lets out a wet laugh, weary and hesitant, bringing a dimpled smile upon Harry’s face instantly.

“Now _you’re_ the embarrassin’ one…” Louis teases, eyes still glistening but a small smile at his lips.

“Oi!” Harry retorts, frowning intently and pretending to be thoroughly offended. His melodramatics just make Louis laugh again, sending butterflies a flutter in the pit of Harry’s stomach. He’ll never get over the feeling of making Louis laugh. “I’d be a pretty terrible boyfriend if I let you cry on ya birthday.”

“Terrible, _terrible_ boyfriend.” Louis agrees, blinking quick and rubbing his eyes. He lets out a shaky, long breath that helps redeem his composure. “Love you.” He mumbles then, looking deeply into Harry’s eyes for the first time since he joined him on the pantry floor.

“I love you too.” Harry answers, relaxing back against the pantry shelf. “Now what’ya doin’ with that pasta, hmm?”

“Oh, shut up, you,” Louis replies, blushing sheepishly over the fact that he’d just been playing with food on his own in the middle of a party like a barking lunatic. He picks up the packet and returns it to the shelf.

“It’s our first Christmas together, did you know?” Harry mentions fondly, figuring it’s best not to tease Louis much more about Italian cuisine.

“Like I could forget.” Louis responds, voice husky and loving.

“What were we doin’ this time last year?”

Louis tilts his head against Harry’s shoulder, humming thoughtfully. It’s the most beautiful sound Harry’s ever heard.

“I was home with the girls in Doncaster…” He recalls quietly, “You called me and sang happy birthday to the tune of _Jingle Bells_ over the phone. Quite unsuccessfully, might I add.”

“You loved it,” Harry states smugly, “You fancied me.”

“Yeah, _whatever_ …” Louis blushes, snuggling closer.

“‘n’ now…” Harry says as he straightens his posture, “Now we’re in a pantry. It’s a step up, don’t you think?”

Louis snorts and then, just in case Harry didn’t already pick up on his attitude, rolls his eyes.

Harry thinks that might be the way it’ll stay; that Louis will cover up his sappiness with smirks and laughter. And then he surprises him (he’s always doing that, you see), and leans in, planting a soft kiss on Harry’s lips. Harry responds with a hesitant palm against Louis’ cheek, pressing firmer as the delicacy makes way for something heavier and more heated. Louis’ hands comb through Harry’s hair, the two of them readjusting their seating positions so that that their chests can press together, with Louis on Harry’s lap. The kiss lingers, long and warm, making Harry as dizzy as the first time they did this; not even a year ago.

The bliss is fleeting – and the second the pantry door opens, Louis and Harry jerk away from one another in fright.

“Oh, sorry!” yelps an uncoordinated woman, her hands splayed on either side of the doorway in the hopes it’ll keep her on her feet. Her male friend clutches her shoulders, peering from behind. Louis is still straddling Harry’s lap, the compromising position evident in the stunned expression of the party guests’ faces. “Just lookin’ for some pesto.”

“Get your own fuckin’ pesto!” Louis retorts, quick-witted enough to respond despite being tipsy, despite the disorientation of being caught and _somehow_ – even despite the peculiar request for the garnish. Harry doesn’t have the capacity to do any of that, and just frowns up at the pair at the door, his hands still at Louis’ bum. “That’s some expensive shit, y’know!”

“Err – hold on a minute,” Harry stumbles over his words to interject. He cranes his neck and spots the row of sauce jars – outstretching his hand and grabbing hold of the pesto with the tips of his fingers. With a huff, he pulls it down and gestures for the woman to take it. “He didn’t mean it,” he adds apologetically, all the while Louis clings to his neck for support. “Merry Christmas.”

“Cheers, mate! Merry Christmas.” And the pantry door closes as quick as it opened, shutting Harry and Louis back into their private world.

“Who were they, anyway?” Louis asks, breaking the silence with his curious amusement, “I didn’t invite them. Did you invite them?”

Harry doesn’t answer except with a bark of laughter.

Later, when the girl returns the pesto jar half-empty and mutters her thanks once again, Harry and Louis are none the wiser. Not even when she hesitantly places the jar on the nearest shelf, lingering – on the verge of interrupting their passionate embrace before deciding against it. Harry and Louis won’t even be able to recall who or when their pesto was brought back to them, having spent the remainder of the evening captivated by one another; kissing passionately into the next day.

 

❄ 2012 ❄

Harry hates New York. He hates that it’s freezing, yet hasn’t snowed once in the time he’s been here. He hates that the people are loud and obnoxious and there’s too many of them everywhere. He hates that Times Square has so many flashing lights and billboards and that Central Park is bleak and uninspiring this time of year, the weather grey and dull, not anything like films depicting the winter of the city seem to suggest. Worst of all, he hates that he would like all those things – might even fall madly in love with them – if he had Louis here; holding his hand or saying something witty. As it is, however, Harry is alone – perhaps more alone than he’s ever felt – and Louis is three thousand, four hundred and seventy miles away. That’s just the way things are this Christmas.  

He feels somehow like he’s just performing one trick after another – posing with Starbucks drinks and windswept hair, pretending to laugh at something Taylor says, holding her hand. Even when the cameras aren’t on either of them, even behind closed doors, it’s all one big charade. He’s sick to death of it. Unfortunately, he hasn’t the luxury of expressing just how nauseated he feels to plaster that fake smile and keep up pleasantries during a time that should be for those he loves, and Harry learns just how patient he truly can be in those weeks leading up to Christmas day.

The day, dubbed a ‘Christmas Extravaganza’ in that polished American accent by people Harry doesn’t even know, begins when Harry is half-asleep. He’s rushed to some sort of beautiful home, in a beautiful neighborhood where he’s subsequently surrounded by beautiful people. None of it feels particularly real – like even in privacy these people can’t muster any authenticity to last a ten-minute conversation.

The hostess is a woman Harry’s introduced to on the spot, who laughs merrily with Taylor and that seems to be enough, apparently, for Harry to be laughed with too; because on Taylor’s arm he’s a part of whatever this is, despite feeling completely out of place. He doesn’t so much as catch her name before she’s announcing some sort of ‘no phones’ policy in a sing-song voice and holding out a frilly trimmed, floral box expectantly. He can’t very well kick up a fuss, reluctantly watching his phone disappear into the lacy prison it’ll inhabit for the rest of the evening.

Harry keeps his eyes fixed on a single platter of hors d’oeuvre for a majority of the dinner, watching the sprig of fresh mint welt as the night grows older, the only indicator that the display is edible rather than some sort of art piece. For the most part he’s able to stay silent, small talk generated between meals and over tastings of expensive wine.

Mostly though, Harry feels like a prize idiot – a prop or fun party trick Taylor’s brought along to impress her American friends and colleagues. After the fourth request to pronounce a basic word (this time it’s ‘tablecloth’) in his ‘cute’ British accent and having to hear the shrill, empty laughter of these equally empty people, Harry excuses himself for the bathroom.

Cheeks still flushed with embarrassment and heart a little heavier than it was this morning, Harry stays in the guest bathroom for a lot longer than is polite and civil when one is waited upon at a dinner party. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, searching for the adorable eighteen year old surprise addition to Taylor Swift’s in-crowd; tries to see how he could possibly belong in a place like this. All he sees is the same, tired boy he was before the party, the one with bags under his eyes and an air of defeat about him.

He wants to be in London, where it’s snowing and it’s five hours earlier and _Love Actually_ is playing on the television, just like it does every year. Right now he’d even go for an average substitute – like _The Santa Claus 3_. But the TV isn’t on in this house, so Harry replays his favourite scenes in his head just to keep him going.

No matter how many times he pictures a flustered Prime Ministerial Hugh Grant finally showing up to Natalie’s door – after knocking on a hundred and one before it – Harry keeps coming back to reality. He wants to be having a better Christmas Eve, preferably with a boy who’d know exactly what to say to lighten Harry’s cloudy mood. It’s times like this that Harry wonders how work always seems to prioritise over family, over his own damn _life_. How he can be sitting here, away from home on the night before Christmas, without a single loved one in sight.

Time passes with Harry in a dream-like state, with no phone and no clock within eyesight, he only has the fading sky out the windows to judge time passing. When the dinner finally ends; Taylor and the rest of the guests satisfied with the vapid conversation and terrible Christmas soundtrack (all underwhelming covers, classics spoiled by the unpleasant company), all Harry can focus on is getting to his phone.

There’s loads of missed calls - and a few texts - but Harry doesn’t waste time before dialing Louis’ number. The second the line connects, Harry’s face lights up with excitement and he calls, “Happy birthday!” excitedly into the London nightclub ambience.

“ _Look at you_ ,” Louis’ drunken voice slurs back, and the way he says it sends a wave of dread through Harry’s body, making the smile falter on his face before he’s even heard the rest of what Louis has to say. “Figured out how to pick up the fucking phone and call back! Should give you a medal or summit!”

“Lou?” Harry questions, frowning in a bemused way, putting a finger to his opposite ear so he can block out the background conversation on his end. Somehow he’s still got an endeared smile on his face, clueless to the growing hostility in Louis’ voice – just comforted by hearing it at all, after feeling like he’s gone without it for far too long. He thinks, stupidly, that Louis just got a little too pissed and is pulling his leg, that this is just another example of his sarcastic humor.

“Not sure if you’re familiar with time zones, but it’s three in the mornin’ here, Harry _dear_ , and it’s not my birthday anymore – not that you’d be keeping track.”

Harry’s face falls instantly into something grim, mouth open like a gaping fish out of water, searching and spluttering. _He missed it_ , he fucking missed Louis’ birthday for this stupid party with these people he doesn’t even know.

“ _Shit_. Lou – baby, I’m sorry, I–” He cuts himself off the moment Louis’ voice sounds on the other end of the line, thinking he’s interjecting, but all he does is mumble incoherent sounds of frustration.

“But the _good_ news is,” Louis does finally articulate, managing to shout over the background noise enough for Harry to hear him clearly, “I’ve never been this drunk in my life, _s’that’s_ gotta be an accomplishment!”

Louis goes silent and all Harry can hear is a bunch of unintelligible noise, and club music and, somehow, the vulnerability in Louis’ uneven breathing.

“Lou, I’m…” He’s lost for words, so caught up in his own shame, his own disappointment that he can’t even form a sentence, “I’m so sorry. It’s so – it’s really dumb, I’ve been at this … _wankery_ party thing with–” He stops short, afraid of being overheard.

“Taylor?” Louis prompts coldly.

Harry closes his eyes, slow – in unison with the way his heart thuds in his ears. His legs feel sluggish and he’s not even totally aware that he’s wandered out of the dining room, found a door, and is now standing in the dark night. It’s cold – his coat still hanging stiffly in the hallway entrance – and goosebumps ripple up his skin in the light breeze, but he braves it for Louis, shutting the warmth of the house out with a click of the glass door behind him.

“I wanted to call,” Harry states sincerely, his voice lowered and thick with emotion, “I _hate_ it here, Lou, the people are so…” He runs his fingers through his hair, clutching at it in an attempt to keep a grip on reality, “I don’t want to be rude,” He collects himself, licking his lips and letting his hand fall back to his side, “But they’re just not my kind of people. I’ve been here since mornin’, bored out of my mind. The lady – Claudia or whatever – she took my phone. She took everyone’s phone as part of some… disconnecting from the online world crap.” He explains his frustration away, Louis remaining silent on the other line. “S’why I couldn’t answer.” He scuffs the graveled ground with the heel of his shoe, nervous for Louis’ response. He finds a weird satisfaction in messing up the ground like that, watching pebbles fall out of their designated area and into the grass; finding an order in being disorderly. That reminds him of Louis, and he feels a pang in his chest for the way things are.

Harry should’ve known that Louis was past coherence and no longer has the capacity for the kind of logic to be able to accept Harry’s excuse. Instead, Louis deadpans, “That’s about the _worst_ fuckin’ lie you’ve ever said. You come up with that on your own or did Taylor help you?”

That hits Harry hard in the chest, not as painful as a punch, but aching like the aftermath of one.

“No, really, Lou. I’m not kidding, the people here are _weird!_ ”

“Whatever, Harry,” Louis quickly retorts, the ‘whatever’ drawled and sloppy and Harry can imagine a drink at his lips as he spoke it, “S’not my birthday anymore, so don’t fuckin’ worry ‘bout it.”

“ _No_ , Lou,” Harry insists, _very much_ worrying about it, “You’re mad – I _wanted_ to call. I’m sorry.”

“‘Membah last year,” Louis says, completely ignoring Harry’s pleading apology, “You woke me up singin’ happy birthday two days early, ‘cause ya said – ya said – ‘ _you’re twenty in Australia’_?”

Harry remembers. _Of course_ he does. Every detail is burnt into his retinas – from the soft feel of the cotton sheets to the sheepish grin upon Louis’ face. He remembers wrapping himself and Louis up into a cocoon, squinting into the early sunlight, morning breath and disheveled hair.

Harry closes his eyes, swallowing back the lump in his throat.

“You always send me a text. No matter where you are,” This time there’s not an ounce of cynicism, no cold laugh, no angry outburst. It’s just Louis, with his husky voice and his broken heart. “Not even a _lousy, rotten text_.”

“I know. It’s…” Harry shakes his head, willing the tears away, “I have no excuse. I don’t even know what to say.”

Before Harry can say anything more, or even hear Louis’ response, the door behind him swings open. Harry spins on the spot back around to face Taylor, backlit by the lights from indoors, one arm out of her emerald green coat as she slides it on.

“Harry, we’re about to go,” she prompts, an eyebrow quirked in question, “We’re carpooling with Cindy and she’s leaving now, so…” She trails off, evidently uncomfortable with the blotchy cheeked, glassy eyed Harry Styles – hardly the picture perfect boy band boyfriend she wants to show off to her friends.

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Harry quips darker than intended, though judging by Taylor’s unfazed expression, it could’ve been curter. Regardless, she nods her head, seems to realize she’s interrupted an important phone call and has the respect enough to give Harry a few more minutes rather than expecting him to hang up right in front of her. He can be thankful to her for that, at least, despite everything.

“Sorry, Lou, what were you saying?” He asks once Taylor closes the door, itching the back of his neck, feeling restless and unnerved.

“ _I said_ – save it for someone who gives a fuck, Harry.” Louis spits back, and Harry can practically see him in the middle of the club, beer in hand, face pulled into a bitter sneer; a poetic juxtaposition to the drunk dancing merriment around him. Maybe there’s even Christmas tinsel, and festive music – though it’s hard to tell over an international call – and Harry even stops to imagine Louis wearing a Santa hat, pictures it drooping along with his diminished state.

Harry’s heart constricts in his chest, his mind working overtime trying to think of how to deal with Louis as volatile as he clearly is. He wants to be there in person, to apologize properly, so that Louis can look into his eyes and find the sorrow there. It’s like a ticking time bomb, Louis too drunk and impatient that the seconds roll over into uncharted territory; they’ve never fought like this over the phone, not when they know there can’t be a resolution until Harry returns from New York.

“ _Lou?_ ” Harry asks into the static, brows furrowed in deep concentration. He can hear yelling - Stan’s voice, he thinks - but he’s not sure what’s being said. “You there, Lou?”

“Yeah,” Louis says after a beat, almost as if he wanted to punish Harry by making him wait, “But I should go. People are waitin’ for me too, you know,” He lingers, and Harry knows that tone too well to miss its vulnerability, no matter how much drunken bravado Louis layers on top of it, “Give my love to Taylor.” It’s cynical and it’s cruel, because Louis knows Harry doesn’t enjoy being here, away from his family, away from him.

“Wait, Louis, please–”

“Merry Christmas, Harry.” The line goes dead.

All Harry can hear is the whistling wind around him, the quickening pump of his own heart and the incessant beep that tells him Louis has hung up. He deliberates for a solid minute, looking out onto the foreign city skyline, on whether he should call back and force Louis to see reason. He even indulges the fantasy of telling Taylor and her friends to stick it where the sun don’t shine and taking a spur of the moment flight all the way back to London. Until he realizes, with a fractured heart, that he can’t do that.

His ship tattoo – fresh and welting – itches relentlessly, as if it’s aching for home. Aching for Louis. He stays on the patio until he’s too cold and his joints ache from the frost, until the very last moment before Taylor comes back to remind him they have to leave.

 

❄ 2013 ❄

It doesn’t matter how lonely one might find themselves: on Christmas Eve in Holmes Chapel at the Antrobus Arms, no one’s a stranger. Like no other night of the year, the whole town manages to pack itself quite comfortably inside the little pub, with room to spare for a spot of dancing.

This particular night, Harry’s in need of some company. With Louis miles away and no chance of a reunion until New Year’s Eve, surrounding himself with cheerful locals is exactly the sort of comfort he needs. There’s old friends or neighbours about, some in little parties with ‘reserved’ cards on their mahogany table tops and others – just walk-ins – who’ve noticed the warm glow through the windows out in town and been drawn to it, like bugs to a flame.

On the track list for this evening’s musical entertainment is _Last Christmas_ by Wham! playing quietly throughout the speakers and seeping into people’s conversations; a cheeky hip-knocking gyration here, a miming of lyrics over there.

Harry puts himself to shame – nodding his head softly to the beat, only knowing snippets of the lyrics, even harder to pick up over the chatter of the pub. He’s usually the Christmas carol connoisseur, but luckily there’s no one around to tease him on this particular occasion.

He’s half-heartedly watching the muted telly up on the corner wall, wedged between two-dollar tinsel and exposed Georgian beams – a quaint combination that only works at Christmas. His attention is fairly lax, considering he only found _Mock the Week’s_ holiday special interesting whilst listening to Louis’ running commentary. It’s just one of those programs nobody actually watches – unless you consider quick glances between frantic baking for tomorrow’s family lunch or through a Styles’ Annual Scrabble match, Christmas edition (which really just means trying to make slightly more festive words than usual – a rule alteration that’s actually harder than it seems, especially after your second mug of baileys) ‘watching’, which Harry certainly doesn’t.

It probably should be a sad state of affairs – the way Harry sits silently observing the people around him while sipping on his warm mulled wine, which actually isn’t so warm after a half hour sitting in room temperature, even if said room temperature is verging on sweltering. And perhaps it is a little tragic at this particular moment – though just ten minutes ago Harry had been socialising with a group of middle-aged-women drunk on peppermint schnapps and each other’s presence. They were lovely, and laughed way too hard over nearly everything Harry said, boosting his ego mountain high.

What happens next occurs in slow motion, and it’s the only time Harry knows without a doubt how Jude Law’s character in _The Holiday_ must’ve felt to see a dazzling Cameron Diaz smile and wave at him across the room. Only – and Harry can say with the utmost confidence – his version is exponentially better.

Christmas music swelling all around; the Ronettes crooning about _Mommy kissin’ Santa Claus last night_ and the stiff pub door opens inward, that beautiful familiar face appearing from the dark winter abyss, features flooding with the twinkling lights within.

It’s a true Christmas miracle seeing Louis – not a hundred miles away, but mere _metres_ – hair windswept and snowflakes dusting his shoulders and the top of his head. Harry almost thinks it’s a dream, or a scene from a movie – _A Wonderful Life_ , _Love Actually,_ and _Bridget Jones_ all rolled into one. Only it’s in glorious technicolour and somehow it’s better than Hugh Grant snogging that girl in the middle of the school play, better than Renée Zellweger chasing after Colin Firth in her leopard print knickers and runners and absolutely nothing else in the snow.

Louis cranes his neck to search the crowd and Harry watches his clueless features scan face after face before landing on his. Harry waves a small wave, the same one Cameron Diaz gives Jude Law, because it’s simply fitting. Louis grins back before looking to his feet and attempting to move through the pub toward him.

He shivers over, wedging his way through a particularly drunk and jovial old man that, oddly enough, shares quite a likeness to Father Christmas himself. By the time he reaches Harry, shaking with cold, he has to look up some, because Harry has involuntarily (and overzealously) risen to his feet like the gentleman that he is.  

“Couldn’t stay away.” Louis offers as a greeting, face flushed a soft red, especially the tip of his nose; and just picturing him trudging through the snow to get to the pub is an image that makes Harry’s heart swell two times too big in his chest.

“It’s your birthday.” Harry answers softly, mostly because he’s still in awe, drinking up the sight before him like a really good homemade Eggnog – delicious and a little bewitching, even enough to make him sort of tipsy. He sounds almost apologetic, too – because Louis hates the cold and he’s just braved the worst of it to get here.

Louis does a sad sort of smile, or perhaps it’s more melancholic, really, because he doesn’t seem upset – not at all.

“It’s Christmas Eve.” He says, the words almost muffled by the corner of his scarf itching at his chin and Mariah Carey is on and all of it is still a Christmas _fucking_ miracle. “I needed to be here.” He doesn’t say anything else, and Harry is too busy watching him with a new glint in his eyes – not that he’s got a mirror with him to check, but it’s what observers of the scene are going to tell him when he recalls the night at a later date.

Louis gives a pointed look to the set of stools by the table, and Harry snaps out of his daze long enough to stumble back onto one in an unflattering attempt at sitting down. Louis laughs slightly, but doesn’t make fun of Harry, simply perches beside him so that their arms brush.

And then Harry’s thinking of _It’s a Wonderful Life_ again, just because he can, and because he’s feeling so nostalgically in love.

“D’you want the moon?” Harry says in a stupor, his head ringing with the orchestral music and George Bailey’s old-timey voice saying _That’s a pretty good idea._ _I’ll give you the moon, Mary._

“Pardon?” Louis laughs, not catching on, though they’ve watched the movie together countless times; Louis crying every single time, even when he knows exactly what’s going to happen, even when they’re happy tears. Harry forgot he’s just not as good at movie trivia like he is.

“I think you should marry me.” Harry decides with a slight nod, blinking down at Louis earnestly. He’s not totally sure what brought it on – in the warm glow of the pub, the night before Christmas, surrounded by strangers. But then again, he’s not consciously aware of _not_ thinking it, either. He can’t even remember a time where thinking of a forever with Louis wasn’t a constant thing. All he knows is the time apart from Louis is unbearable, and everything within him feels more alive now than it ever has. So why not get married?

“Yeah, I thought so too.” Louis does that thing with his mouth, the coy sort of lopsided smirk, the kind that tries to push a huge cheesy grin at bay without a lot of success.

“You did?” Harry’s heart is doing somersaults – or rather, if he’s being festive enough, he’d describe them as ski jumps, sliding and bumping down the snowy mountains of his ribcage.

“In fact,” Louis exudes attitude now, all mischievous and cavalier in a way Harry can’t achieve on most days, let alone right now – half-tipsy, _completely_ in love and the things he’s just said still sounding in his ears, “I thought so; s’much that I would’ve given you a ring on New Years if you hadn’t beaten me to it.” Louis sounds nervous, but only a little; mostly he says it as if he’s saying the most ordinary thing, though they both know it’s far from it. “Assuming, of course, that this is what you call a proposal,” he adds teasingly, curling his upper lip to suggest disdain, though it’s a thinly painted mask. He shrugs then, looking off past Harry to the hand-woven wreaths on the wall, or the merry bands of people scattered by the bar and wringing their hands together in front of the fireplace. “Pretty lousy one.”

“I haven’t got a ring.” Harry states dumbly, looking at Louis like a deer in headlights. Louis laughs, his shoulders relaxing a fraction and mittened hand instinctively rushing to his fringe; a nervous habit he can’t seem to shake.

“S’kay,” Louis bites his lower lip and Harry watches the places teeth sink in stain white before flushing with blood again, “I don’t need one.”

“But I want to be married to you.” Harry is more determined the second time he says it, less like a slip of the tongue and more like a rehearsed, deliberate speech. Bublé is playing this time. “I want to be your husband.”

At the word ‘husband’, Louis’ face transforms from slightly nervous and teeth still chattering from leftover chill that collected in his body, nose still red – to a flood of warmth and joy. That’s the only way it can be described.

“If, y’know…” Harry averts his eyes, playing with the garland upon the table before mumbling, “If you’ll have me ‘n all that.”

“Course I will.”

“So that’s a yes, then?” Harry’s doing that giddy smile, the rare kind that’s before the biggest beaming smile there is – the one he’d wear running up to his mum after his first day of school. It’s even the same one he wore right before he got that final ‘yes’ on the X Factor panel during his audition – the only difference is he’s older, and this ‘yes’ is so much more important (though sixteen-year-old Harry with his musical dreams laid out in front of him couldn’t ever imagine).

“Yes,” Louis finally says, though in actuality he mustn’t’ve made Harry wait very long, yet it all feels like time suspended between the question and that ‘yes’ answer. “I’ll marry you.”

It feels natural to kiss after a remark like that, even here, in the heart of an old country pub filled with mostly middle-aged conservative folk. So that’s exactly what they do, Harry leaning to his side, Louis’ fringe tickling his forehead. It’s a gentle kiss, opening up to something slightly more heated as lips part and tongues tentatively lick. It’s the first kiss they’ve shared in what feels like a lifetime, and Harry feels his whole body flood with warmth at the feel of Louis’ lips, familiar and smooth against his own.

A bellowing man shouts his contempt for ‘that Bublé prick’ over a long note during _Santa Baby,_ and Louis sniggers against Harry’s lips, mutters, “Here, here!” between kisses.

They pretty much take that as their cue to stop kissing, remaining sidled up in their seats, Harry engulfing Louis’ hand in his under the table.

“You realise we haven’t seen each other in nearly two weeks and we haven’t even said hello?” Louis says after a short silence, his feet swinging off the stool rests so that he has a bouncing, excitable air about him. “We just got engaged before properly greeting one another. Where’re our manners? Mum’s going to be _furious_.”

Harry laughs heartily, squeezing Louis’ hand tighter. “I think the whole engagement thing might let us off the hook.”

“You could be right, there.” Louis looks smug; not a cocky smug but a proud, triumphantly happy smug.

“Hi.” Harry says in a giddy voice, unable to shake the permanent beaming smile on his face.

“Hi, yourself.” 

 

❄ 2014 ❄

There’s something skilful in the way Louis and his family manage to fit into their kitchen at the one time. It’s an upgrade from their old place in Doncaster, that much is true - but with the entire clan frantically fussing about, it’s a wonder how things aren’t in more disarray.

Phoebe, Daisy, Lottie, Fizzy, Jay, and Dan eventually, too – all dance around the kitchen, a chaotic choreography of pots and pans, laughter and bickering; the festive, light-hearted bickering common around the holidays. Louis filters through them, too; ducking under arms and avoiding a tray of food. All the while Harry simply watches on with fondness from the sidelines, this Tomlinson-Deakin game going on like the best match of the season.

That is until Jay tells Louis off for spoiling his own birthday brunch by spying on their preparations, and shuns him out the kitchen with the aid of Phoebe and Daisy – who, quite literally, shove him toward Harry, giggling mischievously all the while. And when that doesn’t work - Louis tickling his sisters into submission and getting under Jay’s hair once again - she tells him to keep an eye on Ernest and Doris, knowing full well the eleven month old babies are both Louis and Harry’s weakness.

Harry and Louis take a baby each from the playpen, cradling them and speaking entirely in cringe worthy baby voices – even with each other. The twins are still so small – impossibly so, Harry thinks, as he analyses their minute features. In Louis’ arms, Doris’ feathery light eyelashes blink up at her big brother whilst Ernest’s lids are heavy, verging on slumber.

“They don’t care ‘bout Christmas at all,” Louis murmurs in amusement, “Hey? Isn’t that right?” He smiles softly, looking up at Harry and adding, “It could be World War Three out there and these two’d not have a care in the world.”

“I hope they stay like this forever…” Harry replies, his voice etched with awe. He looks down at the baby in his grasp, acutely aware of how fragile he is, “You hear me, Ernie? You won’t go growin’ up on me, will you?”

“ _I promise, Harry!_ ” Louis chirps, voice high and child-like. Harry laughs, and a flood of images come into his brain – indulging a future like this; where instead of Ernest and Doris, it’s Harry and Louis’ kids.

At the stretch of Doris’ arms, they meander over to the Christmas lights, the rug beneath them soft on Harry’s feet. It feels homey, Harry thinks as they sit down, rug cushioning the babies and making Ernest even sleepier. It _is_ homey.

“I want some.” Harry whines, his voice the mimic of a child asking for a sweet at the shops. He doesn’t take his eyes off the twins, lifting Doris’ little hand in his giant one, watches as she grasps around his pointer finger with all her might. He hears Louis’ laughter and looks up, momentarily breaking the spell yet somehow creating a whole new enchantment on it’s own at the sight of Louis’ smile.

“What’s wrong with these two?” Louis asks playfully, his finger softly gliding down the bridge of Ernest’s button nose where he lies on the plush rug, Louis’ hand the size of his entire face, and arms splayed in a very typical baby pose.  

“No really,” Harry continues, tone serious, “Let’s make babies. I mean, obviously not _right_ now but… one day.”

Louis bites his lower lip, nodding just enough to tell Harry that yes, they’ll make babies one day. Harry’s chest floods with something, probably love, joy, or giddiness – he can’t figure out the real difference between those things, anyhow. Christmas spirit is thrown in, too, with the fireplace radiating a subtle wave of heat into the living room and the sound of too many voices in the next room; just as it should be at this time of year.

“Let’s just take them home with us, Harry,” Louis says casually and it takes a second for Harry to catch on to the joke of it, “We’ll be good parents. Mum won’t mind.” He shrugs, not breaking character for a second, not even while Harry grins stupidly and shakes his head at him. He cranes his neck in the direction of the divide between the living area and the kitchen, sitting up straight and bellowing, “Isn’t that right, Mum?”

Harry bows his head, curls falling into his line of vision, keeping the laughter at bay as a short, expectant silence falls over the two of them.

“What, love?” Jay calls back, just as Harry and Louis knew she would.

“See. She’s all for it, really!” Louis shrugs, quirking his head to the side as he fondly watches his baby siblings play on the floor. “C’mon. They’re small, we could probably fit them in your bag.”

Harry can’t even formulate a clever enough response, or even a mediocre one at that, resorting to bouts of giggling laughter, Doris still clutching his finger like her life depends on it.

“Quick – no time for messin’ about. While they’re all in the kitchen, no one will suspect a thing.”

Lottie walks in from the kitchen, her hands full with plates that she places on the table. When she spots the sniggering from Harry and the coy, mischievous grin from Louis, she puts her hands to her hips.

“What are these silly boys doin’ with you two?” she asks, joining Harry and Louis with the twins on the floor.

“Damn it, Harry. Too slow!” Louis exclaims as Lottie blows raspberries into Ernest’s neck. “Missed our chance.”

 

❄ 2015 ❄

“Tell me again why we decided to move over Christmas?” Louis asks, placing the last of the cardboard boxes atop an existing stack, letting out a huff and wiping his brow.

Harry sighs out a laugh that turns into a puff of air. It ends up blowing the irritating, stray strand of hair out of his face. “Because we’re idiots.”

“ _Ah, yes._ That’s it.” Louis says as if enlightened, wagging his finger about. He stares down at the boxes; the stack’s almost as tall as he is, Harry notices with amusement. “That was truly a fucking stupid idea, wasn’t it?”

“Not our best, it’s true.” Harry admits, abandoning the opened, half-filled box on the floor to wander across the empty space to his fiancé. “But…” he draws out the word, woollen socks sliding against the shining floorboards. He’s going to miss racing Louis across these floors, wearing out their favourite pairs of socks from hooking them on the splintering edges, with _Jerry McGuire_ playing in the background. Once he reaches Louis, he rests his chin on his shoulder. It’s a little awkward with the height difference, but Harry’ll be damned if that’s ever stopped them before. “We’re flying out in five hours.” He can’t see Louis’ reaction, but can gauge it’s a positive one by the way his head tilts to the side and he nods in agreement. “And, you know, if we hadn’t stayed up all night–”

“All week.” Louis corrects.

Harry smiles. “ _All week_ ,” he amends himself, chin bobbing up and down as he speaks, “Then we wouldn’t’ve had made time for goin’ home over Christmas.” He states, lifting his head off Louis’ shoulder and standing straight at about the same instant that Louis fully turns to face him, leaning back minutely against the boxes. “This way, even though we’re going to be on a plane for most of your birthday,” Louis grumbles at that, lower lip jutted, adorably needy, “We’ll get to be home with your family, and mine. And then we get to come back to L.A. in the new year… and move into our house right away. Moment we land, if you like. The one we bought together.”

“The house we bought together…” Louis reiterates in a soft whisper, looking especially beautiful in the lowered light of a single second-hand lamp in the adjacent corner.

Harry grins impossibly big to hear Louis say it out loud, dimples on full display. They’ve lived together for years, their lives entwined in every single way for as long as Harry can remember. They’ve bought flats, and holiday houses and even a car in different cities for the short time of the year that they visit. They’ve never bought a _house,_ though – a proper guest bedroom, several toilets, picket-fenced _house_.

Then Louis gets a sly look on his face, eyeing something just to the left of Harry.

“Remember when we shagged right over there?” He says, no longer hiding the smirk in his voice and upon his features.

With a huffed laugh, Harry follows his gaze, because _to be fair_ , they’ve shagged in a lot of places in this house, and he can be forgiven for not knowing which exact location Louis is referring to.

“Yep,” He says with a nod, “Didn’t even make it to the couch.” He stares at the bare space where the couch used to be, in that lovely section near the window that’d pool with light in the mornings. Harry almost expects there to be a mark in the wood, some sort of remnant of the couch like a twelve-year-old boy scratching ‘I was here’ into a famous monument’s surface or something. He knows, though, that logistically that doesn’t make sense – they haven’t lived here nearly long enough for there to be any aged colouring where the couch once stood, especially if you take into consideration Harry’s flare for redecorating and moving the furniture around every few months.

“Disgusting teenagers.” Louis mutters and Harry’s attention returns to him with an amused expression.

“You were 22 at the time.” He counters matter-of-factly.  

“ _Still._ ” Louis shrugs, his eyes scanning the room, from ceiling top to the floor beneath his socks. “Look at the sight of this place…” He remarks thoughtfully, folding his arms. “Looks like we’ve been robbed, for Christ’s sake.”

“There’s a tree.” Harry allows, and they both watch the glint of coloured lights hanging on the pine tree in the corner. They might’ve been putting all their treasured belongings in boxes for the past several weeks, but Harry and Louis would be damned not to have a Christmas tree, no matter how tragic it has come to appear in the empty room now.

“It looks like we’ve been robbed _at Christmas_.” Louis corrects himself.

“Very _Home Alone._ ” Harry muses, pretending to frown at how serious it is.

“Now _that’s_ what I call a good Christmas film.”

“As opposed to a bad one? They don’t exist,” Harry states casually, almost cavalier in his attitude on the subject, “There’s no such thing as a bad Christmas film.”

“ _Bad Santa_?” Louis offers skeptically, and he’s making his way to the closest wall, eyes still on Harry for a reaction.

“That film doesn’t deserve to be called a Christmas movie.” Harry pouts in return, not necessarily conscious of his movement after Louis, light footsteps across the room, always magnetised to him in a way he stopped being aware of long ago. Louis is still chuckling lightly as Harry sits beside him, their backs pressed against the wall and shoulders touching, forever spinning in one another’s orbits.

“How's it come to a place in our lives where we have to tell the moving people to be gentle with our box labelled ‘Build-A-Bear Accessories’?” Harry perks up, grinning stupidly and eyes on the box of said accessories.

“I think the _real_ question here, Harold; is how come it took s'long for us to get to this place?”

Harry laughs, the sound distorted by the way his head is resting. “I feel like an actual dad,” He laments, “I nearly welled up putting them in a box like that.”

“How’d’ ya mean _nearly?_ ” Louis laughs with a scoff, _“_ I saw you. I was there. You were in waterfalls.” Harry chuckles, not even bothering to deny it, and Louis, with a change of tone now, continues, “Speakin’ of the bears, we should probably tweet somethin’ soon.”

“Hmm. Somethin’ Christmassy.” Harry muses in agreement, though there’s a silent agreement that things like rainbow bondage bears, cryptic messages and gay innuendoes are to be put on hold for the time being, regardless of how fun it can be.  

Harry and Louis are quiet for a while, simply looking out upon the great expanse of a place they once called home. It’s sad, in a way, to be saying goodbye. Sure, it’s not the place they ever dreamed to spend a lifetime – hell, Harry could probably count the months they’ve actually lived here off the road on both hands. But it was a _small_ lifetime, a slice of their lives amidst the chaos and fame and all the nonsense that is, for all intents and purposes, just _static_ – unless Louis is by his side.

“We made some great memories here…” Harry speaks soft and low, head tilted back, his messy bun – falling out in places – squishing against the wall.

“Don’t get sappy on me now, Harold,” Louis whines, shoulders slouching and legs stretched out, knocking his feet together absentmindedly. It’s contrasted with the way Harry folds his legs into him, arms looped around his knees. “It’s three in the morning, I’ve _aged_ overnight – quite literally. I’m twenty-four now, did you know?” He says it as if the moment it hit midnight Harry didn’t drop the pile of Tupperware containers onto the kitchen floor and yell _Happy birthday, my love!_ at the top of his lungs, catching Louis so off guard that he screamed – _literally screamed_ and Harry had to call the neighbours to inform them that no murder had taken place.

“I had an inkling.” Harry replies smoothly, scrunching his nose in an attempt to hide his overwhelming amusement. Needless to say, it doesn’t really work.

Still slumping, Louis lets out a tired, disgruntled noise. “I’m so tired I’m not even sleepy anymore. Is that even possible?”

“We don’t have to sleep,” Harry states, jutting his bottom lip out in a thoughtful frown, “We have to be packed and ready for the airport soon, anyway. You can sleep on the plane.”

“You’re always full of good ideas, aren’t you?” Louis whispers back, though Harry isn’t quite sure why they’ve lowered their voices. It might have something to do with the way the room echoes in it’s emptiness, every word bouncing off the walls and floors.

“Here’s another good idea from me,” Harry begins, deliberately talking a fraction louder.

“ _Ooh_ …”

“How ‘bout a bit of music?” Harry wants to be more old-fashioned; pull out their record player, or perhaps even the 90’s radio player that’s a little banged up; quite dated but that plays CDs smooth enough. As it is, though, both of those are securely packed away in one of the sea of boxes – upstairs or downstairs, Harry isn’t even sure. So it’s a less romantic gesture when he pulls out his phone, searching for the perfect song and getting to his feet as he clicks play, placing it on one of the stack of boxes.

Judy Garland’s rendition of _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ fills the empty space, bouncing off the plain white walls, once covered in art and bookshelves, now a shell of a living space.

Harry wanders back over to where Louis sits on the floor; it’s a small feat – just two long strides before he’s towering above his fiancé. The second Louis registers the song, he smiles, outstretching his hand for Harry to take before he’s even requested it (though, of course, he was going to).

The dreamy orchestral opens to 1944 Judy’s warbling voice, lulling even the most restless Louis into a silent peace. He lets Harry guide him by the hand to the centre of their empty living room, moulding to the way Harry’s hand engulfs his in a gentle but firm lead, and even allows Harry to loop his other arm around his lower back.

“ _Have yourself…”_ Harry begins to sing, Louis quickly chiming in so that they both sing the next part, “ _A merry little Christmas_ ,” Louis’ arms are around Harry’s waist, and their chests are pressed gentle and close, “ _Make the Yuletide gay_ ,” They both draw out the ‘gay’ in a silly, sing-song way – totally unplanned and completely in unison. That brings a huge smile on both their faces, too tired for outright fits of laughter, but happy enough that it hurts Harry’s cheeks.

Harry and Louis let Judy takeover after that, quietly holding one another, socks gliding on the varnished wood, making their slow turns easy and second-nature. 

> _Next year, all our troubles will be miles away…_

Louis’ head rests at Harry’s shoulder, Harry in turn settling his head against Louis’. They’re slow dancing, in the middle of an empty house, with a single Christmas tree and scattered boxes for company.

> _Once again, as in olden days_
> 
> _Happy golden days of yore_
> 
> _Faithful friends who are dear to us_
> 
> _Will be near to us, once more…_

The song is a Christmas lullaby – Harry decides – eyes heavily lidded and body feeling thick with the need for sleep. Louis’ head burrows deeper into Harry’s chest, just beneath his shoulder now. The piece is soft and loving, warm and hopeful and something in Judy’s voice breathes a subtle sadness – just the right amount – enough to make you think, enough to make you appreciate what you’ve got, at a time where some have nothing.

> _Someday soon we all will be together_
> 
> _If the fates allow_
> 
> _Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow_

“I’ve always loved that bit,” Louis mutters against Harry’s chest. His voice is impossibly soft and husky, the tone that’s soothed Harry into slumber far too many instances to recount. “I like the way she says it. _We’ll have to muddle through_ …”

Harry knows what he means, understands the deeper meaning of the lyrics and of Louis’ words. The year has been hard, even more so in retrospect, and yet – and Harry is sure Louis would concur – he doesn’t regret a minute of it. Not while they have one another.

“We’ve done quite a fair bit of muddling through, haven’t we, Lou?” Harry remarks thoughtfully, an edge of bittersweet meaning there. Louis goes silent, heaving in a deep breath, steady against Harry’s chest, and it feels like a tender moment – a very, very tender moment. So Harry simply stays in it, moving in a slow waltz, letting his heart be light, just as Judy sung for it to be. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is also dedicated to the Tomlinson-Deakin family, during a very difficult holiday season. All my love goes out to them. And more specifically, to Louis, on his first birthday and Christmas without his mum. I'm keeping him close to my heart.


End file.
